


I’ve lost my charge (I’ve been Degaussed)

by stazar (IHatePassiveVoice)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Percy, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent, Drama, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, Fight Scenes, Flashbacks in Parantheses, Ichor and Blood, Inspired by Brand New's "The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me", Kronos is Bad, M/M, Power Scaling, So is Thalia, Time Magic, the Second Titanomachy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:49:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHatePassiveVoice/pseuds/stazar
Summary: Hestia told Nico that home emerged from wherever he wanted it to be. He found it ironic that he found it only after the West burned down.





	I’ve lost my charge (I’ve been Degaussed)

Nico didn’t stagger after the jump. The new Golden Age made shadow travel easier, spreading shadows through the world, a new aged pandemic. Neither Apollo nor Artemis drove their chariots. The Titans slathered a permanent dusk in the sky, punctuated with briefs stints of Hyperion’s light, who on occasion exploded across the landscape like a concocted mixture of nuclear bombs and fireworks. It brought the shadow realm a little closer to home, more of an extension of physics itself, a door that one only has to grab by the knob to open instead of a pit that one has to jump into headfirst.

Montauk’s sea sprayed, cold, mixing with a light drizzle under his eyes and pooling with persistent surface tension. Nico eased with each crunch beneath boots, digging tread marks into the sand to wash away later.

A cabin sat just on his right, old and rickety and a color that would have been marine green if someone had bothered painting it again, but the humid and cold air stripped the wood of its sheen. Each step groaned despite his feather-light movements. Shoving hair to the right, he opened the door, pushing it open with a creak.

“Welcome back,” Annabeth called from the living room, hovering over the Sibylline Books, propped up by cups or whatever else. Glasses leaned off her nose, shielding her bloodshot eyes from his line of sight.

“Been a while.” He shrugged off his aviator’s jacket and moved to greet her. “New project, Night Owl?”

Annabeth plucked off her glasses, the legs of the frame clicking shut. Her aura flicked inward like a candle dipped in rain. “It’s…Rachel.”

The name twisted Nico’s smile, pulling his lips and teeth at awkward angles, an awkward placement. Rachel Dare had ignored his warnings. Apollo encouraged with a dazzling smile, perfect courtesy, and full knowledge of Hades’ wrath. Rachel thought she could best the intergenerational burden, that it couldn’t bear more difficulty than throwing a hairbrush at a titan.

Insanity, the Greek kind, both strict and untamed, jammed right between her frontal lobe and her amygdala.

“She gave me a prophecy,” she said, gesturing to a stack of papers.

“After Olympus fell, you promised,” he stopped a few feet from the couch, gripping its cracked leather, indenting a mark, “that you were _done_.”

 

(Even in the moments that lightning hurtled towards the Empire State Building, cracking pillar after pillar until no Olympian structure survived, everything shattered and smoldering except for a lone pine tree planted in remembrance—even in the moments after that, Annabeth thought she could turn Thalia and Luke back to the right side.)

 

“Listen here, Death Breath.” The nickname wasn’t even close to accurate. As she approached, she noticed that his breath tasted like instant coffee, boiling iron, ash, and the smell of dirt after it rained. He flinched at her touch, and she now realized she towered him by a few inches. “I blew it last time, but we have one more shot.”

“I don’t want it,” Nico said, backing away and shaking his head.

Her jaw clenched. “We could save the world.”

“You don’t get it,” he said, waving his hands wildly. The ground vibrated. Annabeth couldn’t tell if it shook from the earthshaker standing in front of her or some thunder that struck too close to home. Eyebrows tightened. Pupils dilated. Fists pitched together, tented. “We have a routine and alarm clocks, a beachfront property and your bookshelves. Something to risk again. And I won’t throw it away.”

He had dodged every Olympian battle except Manhattan. She had pleaded with him, any help at all, please, we can avert another Battle of the Labyrinth. But the son of Hades had shook his head, glancing to the sky, the ground, and the rubble of Camp Half-Blood before murmuring, “I don’t care.”

She just shook her head.

“Annabeth, you’re my civilization!” Nico paused, digging out a silence long enough for him to carefully craft his next words, and sighed, voice cracking. “Please, forget your damned hubris.”

 

(Hestia told Nico that home emerged from wherever he wanted it to be. He found it ironic that he found it only after the West burned down.)

 

“You pretend like they took nothing from you.”

“Bianca died.” He twisted his ring back and forth, scuffing skin. Nico looked her up and down before settling on her eyes. The Ghost King revolved around her like a planet just caught in orbit, a moon without enough mass to circle a star on its own. “But you’re my sister now, too.”

Annabeth looked away, walked to the door, and opened it. It groaned with the emotion that she wouldn’t let out. “Each sunrise I’m reminded that I had the chance to kill Luke, stab him in his stupid armpit, and I didn’t.”

The son of Hades felt her bones move, aura whirling around her like a thunderstorm, and he could stop her with the extension of an arm: just lift her legs up, walk her back in. For a second, his power licked around, catching her step. Maybe if he could explain himself again, talk more tenderly, she would let it go—no, Gods, no, his words had been enough, but she always had a bit more heroic spirit in her.

Nico stared at his shaking hands.

 

(Annabeth beat Luke and Thalia alone on Mount Olympus that night, but in the moment that should have been Kronos’ death, she hesitated, and a gust knocked her off.)

 

She sat on the beach. Dirt and waves invaded her shoes, but Annabeth didn’t mind, not really.

A pebble plopped in front of her. She tilted her head, shivering.

“Hello, child.” A man in a suit sat behind her, a tiny fire in hand.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Save it, Prometheus.”

The air revolved around the deity, warming her softly, a meager fireplace emulating the eye of the storm. “My information is pertinent.”

The rain picked up, cold and wet and with a bit of hail mixed in, pelting her, red marks crawling up onto her arms. “You’re a double agent and a backstabber; to you, all information is pertinent.”

The Titan of Foresight shrugged. “I warned you not to hesitate years ago, Annabeth Chase.”

 “You’re so elusive that it was incomprehensible.” Her knife shrieked as she pulled it loose from the chain link hanging off her pants. Right hand brought an edge to his neck, hovering. “You should’ve just told me to kill him.”

He laughed, hearty and commanding, rumbling against the stilled blade. “Victory ensures your failure never occurs.”

She scanned his red and gold eyes. They flared as if simulating nuclear fusion. “What?”

“Kronos removed Percy Jackson, the true heir of the first Great Prophecy, from time.” He smiled wide, baring enlarged canines that glinted in the moonlight. “But break the magic, child, and the Fates correct it, degaussing this as if it never occurred.”

 

(Nico didn’t know that Percy Jackson never stumbled to Camp Half-Blood, clutching the Minotaur’s horn so hard, thinking, _I really want Mom back_. Kronos’ final plan tinkered with history, changed a small but pivotal variable. The medics never noticed that the damn spoil dug into his hand because Percy never arrived at all.)

 

Nico woke up face to face with Prometheus, who grinned and extended his arm. “Pleased to see you again, Prince of the Underworld.”

The son of Hades flipped off the couch. His sword sighed against its sheathe. He squinted, sizing him up, hadn’t seen the guy since Pandora’s box. At the time, it felt more like a burden than a gift, but it still sat in another room, so hope survived, for all that’s worth. “Leave me alone.”

Prometheus stepped forward. “Nico di Angelo, I suggest you quest with her.”

The temperature dropped twenty degrees. The room darkened. Shadows pulsed around the demigod’s figure. Nico grabbed his collar. A button fell off. The shirt tore. “You’re worse than Luke.”

Prometheus tipped his face forward, invading Nico’s space, red eyes centering on his. A few candles on the counter lit, illuminating bubbles of red and white light just like the deity’s eyes. The room heated back up. “As if your moral righteousness is preferable. You refuse a quest to save the West to satisfy your hedonism.”

Nico threw the Titan, thumping him against the drywall, cracking it like abandoned Roman armor. He lunged, driving his sword toward the entity, arms uncurling forward, the darkness following him like a carrier pigeon—

Under his stygian iron, Annabeth gripped her blade, bracing in the same stance that she held the sky with, celestial bronze just above the gray streak in her hair that matched his. He could twist it out of her grasp, or he could kick and break her form, or he could even push with a little more pressure, forcing her to buckle—but not really. This was sentimental checkmate, and she must have concluded the same to leave herself open like that.

 

(Annabeth watched Nico trade Daedalus for Bianca, a soul for a soul. When the transaction completed and Minos instead slithered from the dirt with yellow eyes, fangs instead of teeth, and claws of gold, he hefted his black blade and slashed the nightmarish chimera’s neck. She realized the fathers of monsters begin with the best intentions: to revive a loved one, to balance the scales of justice, or to save the world. That’s why she fights.)

 

“Drop it,” he commanded. Annabeth knew he wasn’t referring to her weapon.

She snarled. “We have the chance to fix everything, and you want to stay in this house!”

Their blades ground against each other, screaming just a bit quieter than their voices. “Don’t you think that’s worthwhile?” She couldn’t look him in the eyes because—besides the sparks flying in her face, really—he wasn’t talking about the house or the alarm clocks or the routine. Nico was asking about himself.

“Of course, you’re worthwhile!” She couldn’t hold the weight for much longer. Epinephrine wouldn’t stop her shoulders from giving out. “But I can’t—”

“Can’t or won’t?” Nico gritted.

She ducked to the right, releasing her knife and rolling across the floor to avoid the downward arc of Nico’s sword.

Annabeth stood up and took a deep breath. “Duel me, all or nothing.”

 

(Chiron refused to print him a black Camp Half-Blood shirt. Annabeth scoffed at him. A bit cross, he told her, “It’s not about the t-shirt,” and vanished the next day.)

 

The beach disadvantaged both of them, so it seemed like a natural choice. Both relied on quick dodges and darts to finish their opponents, but here, their feet sank into the sand, mushy from the rain.

Annabeth’s style was ancient Greek, molded by Chiron’s influence. She had to compensate for less strength than the average male or beast, and her style operated by countering heavier opponents with agility and strategy. It advantaged her to draw close, collapse her opponent’s guard with a pinprick strike, and finish with a heavier blow.

On the other hand, Nico fought like a zombie without enough energy to exert on elaborate displays. His father’s genes dictated that his nervous system didn’t barrage his muscles with heavy spurts of adrenaline. Instead, he knew the life in his limbs and measured their limits. He thrived on wars of attrition, moving his arms and legs with just enough force to survive until his opponent collapsed.

Sleet and sand stuck in his hair, obscuring his vision. As she approached, he felt ground vibrate and sidestepped, swinging to edge her away toward the shallow water.

“I failed,” she said, voice as cold as the weather. Annabeth launched herself forward, narrowing the gap between them. “Luke _begged_ me to stab him.”

The wind picked up, reddening his pale cheeks. He wanted to give her a hug, but strategically Nico knew to back away first and deflect her strikes. A kick to her side let him shove her away. “That responsibility should never have been yours.”

He couldn’t tell if the water on her cheeks was tears or melted snow.

 

(Annabeth Chase earned titles for her prowess on the battlefield but didn’t identify with them. She preferred Bane of Olympus.)

 

Hail welted her skin. It would blister later. The ghastly breeze kicked up sand. It rubbed her eyes. Sea water filled her boots. It had been over twenty-four hours since Annabeth last slept. She hadn’t felt livelier for months.

She analyzed her one option: to get closer. His stygian iron weighed more than her knife, slowing him, but he could overcome the lesser speed by leveraging its length to deter her. If she closed the distance, he would have trouble deflecting slashes.

Unfortunately, he knew that, too. Even worse, the sand hid shells, bits of bones from long-dead creatures. Every time her toes so much as curled, he felt it. She wasn’t sure why he even bothered keeping his eyes open, honestly. But on second thought, she found a weakness there.

Annabeth kicked her boot off. It sailed off the ground, meaning he relied only on sight to dodge it. He didn’t have much time to react.

As he came closer, mapping out each move in relation to her, she charged, splashing water with her bare feet. A smirk formed on her face as his eyebrows furrowed. Before reaching the beach proper, Annabeth jumped.

She flew through the air, wind at her back, using the downward momentum to slide her blade against his. It screeched until reaching an area close to the hilt. Finally, she had closed in.

He kicked out, almost tripping her, but she caught it with the side of her knee, wrenched her knife right with all the leverage she could muster to push his black sword against the ground. Celestial bronze tore his shirt, digging into his ribcage. “Yield.”

Nico dropped his shoulders and inhaled, lethargic and wistful. With a sigh, his hands rose. The stygian iron plopped against the sand. “Guess I’m saving the world.”

“We,” Annabeth corrected, “are saving the world.”

 

(Only Luke bathed in the River of Styx. Nico wanted to, but Hades never let him meet Maria di Angelo. He couldn’t receive the blessing to journey to the beach of the Styx. It hurt him far more, however, that he would never learn if she would have given it. That’s worse than any physical wound his enemies could inflict.)

 

“Kronos placed your target in Tartarus,” Prometheus explained.

Nico had peered down the pit once out of curiosity. It looked like the damned cousin of the Christian Hell: Olympus’ enemies converged in a claustrophobic setting that made a bloody free for all inevitable, but monsters alone couldn’t scare him, no. As a child of the Underworld, Nico could see past the death mist that oozed the subspace like lead paint. The geography itself breathed and huffed in grotesque labor, heaving up acid which could corrode even celestial bronze. Tartarus was alive and watched every entity that stepped on Him.

Gods damnit. “No demigod has ever survived down there.” He closed his throat to stymie the bile climbing up.

Annabeth clucked her tongue. “Yet.”

“This is worse than a suicide mission.” He tensed, thumb clenching hard enough around knuckles for them to crack. The pop made him flinch. “Dying down there deprives us of proper afterlife.”

The demigoddess shrugged. “We could face worse.”


End file.
